Five fingers
by bairnpirate
Summary: "It was all about the game, yes, the game, and the excitement he got from it. He couldn't feel connected, couldn't love. He was a consulting detective, a machine without feelings." But what if the only one he can count as a "friend" starts getting weaker every day, in front of his own eyes. Was.. was he actually able to love?
1. Chapter 1

Writer's note:

I fell in love with Sherlock the moment I saw the first episode and since then I wanted to write something about it. But I wanted to make Sherlock to appear a **bit** more like the Sherlock in the original books, so that's why he may appear colder at some points.

Rated as M for safety. Warnings for cursing and fingers.

If there is any mistakes in the story, please forgive me.

I hope you'll enjoy!

* * *

He had seen the ocean, he had seen the mountains. He knew every street of London, every school, every restaurant, and every dead end. There was nothing that could escape this man's eyes, nothing that could crush him. He was the genius mastermind. No one could compete with him. No one could break his incredible mind or catch an emotion on his cold face. He didn't care about anyone or anything. It was all about the game, yes, the game, and the excitement he got from it. He couldn't feel connected, couldn't love. He was a consulting detective, a machine without feelings. Everything in his head was complicated, too complicated for us, normal people, to understand. But even when his brain was able to solve every single problem he faced, he lacked of social skills and feelings.

Or so we thought.

It was a late evening when everything started. It wasn't anything extra-ordinary, just a normal call from Lestrade. Every other day he called him, asking for help, asking for assistance. And every other time he refused, and rarely agreed to co-operate with him. If it wasn't anything interesting, anything odd or weird, it wasn't worth of his time. But when it was, he wouldn't do it without me.

This call was just everything what it usually was. The police needed help. There had been another murder, third one, to be precise, and they had faced a dead end. There was almost no connection between the murders, expect for the smallest little detail. They all lacked one finger. The first victim had his thumb cut off. Old man, around his 50's. Living alone since his wife's death, no children, no family. Found dead from the parking lot of a mall, with no signs of violence or force. He was just… dead.  
Second victim missed an index finger. She was an older woman, mother of five and lived in Southern part of London. Worked as a hairdresser in the local salon and earned just a little money. From her ID the police knew she was 43 years old and was called Sally. She was found from the toilets of a shopping centre, wearing no outerwear or shoes.  
Third, and the newest victim, had had his middle finger cut off. He was certainly part of some motorcycle-gang, due to his many tattoos, leather jacket and helmet, which he had had in his hand when the police found him from the park, lying dead on the ground. He was around his 30's and had been beaten up badly. He had bad bruises on his neck and shoulders and his right arm was broken.

"Yes, yes I do understand. I'm no idiot. I'll be on my way", he said while standing up from his armchair. There was a small sound when he quit the call with Lestrade and lifted his head so his eyes could meet the stare of mine.

"We've got to go now, John. We have a new case, and interesting one, to that matter", he said and tried to smile. I forced a smile on my lips when I stood up. Few months back he'd been much more excited. He would have been jumping up and down, yelling to the ceiling and smiling as wide as he could smile. He was excited now too, but behind the crooked smile I saw the drowsiness which was caused by the things I did not wish even for my worst enemy. He might be a genius mastermind, but he also had a weakness.

"Where are we going?" I asked before I stood up. I was worried, I couldn't lie. Even when this man probably couldn't connect with anyone, he was my best – and almost only – friend. He might be weird, socially disabled and sometimes even cruel, but I wanted to believe he had a heart behind his hard shell. I was almost sure of it, even when I knew he didn't agree himself.

"To Grange Park. We need to take a cab. Don't forget to take an umbrella. It will rain during the night", he  
said, getting his purple scarf and black jacket. I mumbled something to answer him, but something caught my eye. My hands were shaking, as they had been before I moved in to 221B Backer Street. Maybe he and the psychiatrist had been wrong about the stress. It had to be something else. Maybe I should see other doctors so they could give their opinions, since I wasn't capable of understanding all the things about human mind – or their nervous system. Maybe everything wasn't just in my head, but it was actually my body which was slowly giving up on –

"John! JOHN! Are you listening to me?"  
His call woke me up from my thoughts.  
"Yes, yes I am. No need to shout. What were you saying again?" I asked when I grabbed my jacket from the chair. He gave me the scariest look he could ever give to me. The look, which looked like he could see through my soul. His eyes travelled from my eyes to the collar of my blue shirt and ending its way on my hands. He knew what I was suspecting and I was sure of it. Some small part of me actually said that that was the reason why he did those things to himself. Because he couldn't handle it. He couldn't watch me suffer.

When his eyes returned to meet my eyes again, his expression seemed much colder than usually.  
"Nothing important. Are you coming or not?" he said, turning around and leaving the room before I could answer. I sighed when I followed him, taking support from the walls while walking. I wasn't alright, that was for sure. I tried my best to hide it, but I knew it wouldn't help. He saw everything. And I could have been sure it hurt him. But he hadn't a heart, had he? I was just a replacement for the skull which he used to have on his fireplace, until Mrs Hudson hid it. For me it didn't really matter if I was a replacement or a friend. Even when everyone else didn't, I trusted him with all of my soul.

I followed him downstairs and closed the door behind me. He had stopped a cab and was waiting inside for me to join him. When I did, he didn't make a single move to show me that he had even realized I was there. It took around fifteen minutes after the cab driver had started driving, when he finally spoke.

"John, are you feeling well?" he asked quietly, without looking at me directly. I frowned.

"Yes, yes I am fine. Why are you asking?" I asked, trying to sound like I had no idea what he was talking about. I could feel the annoyed look he gave me.

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Sometimes, yes." I knew that he was getting a bit angry at me. He turned his head away snorting quietly. This whole short conversation was ridiculous. Both of us knew what was happening and he knew – like usually – more than me. So why bother to say the obvious things when they just hurt when spoken out loud?

"You're the idiot here", he answered after a short while and turned his whole body so he would be able to see me better. This was the first time after we got into the cab when I faced his icy stare. "Maybe", I said quietly and tried to keep my expression as normal as it usually was. Suddenly – so suddenly that I actually flinched – he grabbed my hand and pulled me closer, taking a good look on my face. His cold eyes were just few inches away from my face when he examined my tired eyes and bags under them. He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and let me go.

"We're almost there, John. If you feel like it, you can go home from here", he said, looking outside again, avoiding my questions and stare.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Believe me finally. I'm completely fine", I repeated, this time with frustration. I wasn't sure if those words were meant for me, or for him. I stared my hands when the cab stopped and Sherlock opened the door to step outside. Before I could do anything, he was standing next to the door of my side. He opened it and kept it open until I was standing next to him. He closed the door with a loud bang, staring at me with those piercing eyes.

"Off we go, then", he said and smiled a little. He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer. He probably caught the surprised look on my face, because when I lifted my eyes, he was smiling at me.

"We wouldn't want you to faint or fall over on the crime scene, would we?" he asked quietly and squeezed me gently.

"Lestrade is over there. Come on, John", he said, still keeping me in a tight grip when he started walking towards the police officer.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"Shut up John, and do as I say."

"Why-"

"Oh lord, just shut up already. Even with those small brains of yours it shouldn't be that hard!"

"But Sherlock, what are you-" Before I could finish my sentence, he gave me again one of those looks of his. Then he brushed my cheek gently with his finger and smiled a bit. If nothing else, that small little thing finally shut me up. He never touched me. He never touched anyone.

* * *

to be continued!


	2. Chapter 2

I tried to re-read this at least million times but there might still be few mistakes. Sorry for that.

Warnings for potential drug use, language and fingers.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

He half walked and half dragged me behind him while striding off to Lestrade. He eyed carefully our surroundings before he opened his mouth. We were in a park, close to Grange Park's primary school.

"I assume you don't have any chairs nearby", he said pretty loudly, frowning. Lestrade turned around and sighed in relief.

"Oh, it's you. Finally", the police officer said when he recognized us. But then his facial expression became confused.

"Chair? Why would we have chairs here? It's a crime scene, Sherlock, not a family gathering!" Lestrade answered raising his voice due surprise.

"Oh, pity", he, Mr. Holmes, Mr. _Sherlock_ Holmes snorted and tilted his head a little before continuing, "you should get a few. Maybe we could have a nice little picnic here. Eating some_fingers_ between our hot dogs, perhaps?"

Even I knew he was being sarcastic, the expression on Lestrade's face didn't look like the police inspector understood it. After staring at Sherlock for few seconds with his mouth hanging open, Lestrade gathered himself.

"The main thing is that you are here. Come on now, follow me", the police officer said and waved to Anderson so he would come with us. Sherlock sneered next to me. He hated forensic scientist Anderson almost as badly as Anderson hated him. With a sigh he dragged me with him to follow Lestrade through the park and under the caution tape straight to the scene of the crime. There were dozens of police officers around searching for the clues and keeping the ordinary citizens out of the way. Lestrade led us through the crime scene and stopped in front of the biggest tree on sight. We were standing in the shadow of the tree and could see the Grange Park's primary school from the place we were at.

"We don't know yet who he is. He didn't have his ID with him. What can you tell from this?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, stepping away from the way so we could see they dead young man lying behind him. He was everything I had imagined; a pretty tall boy with many tattoos, piercings and short black hair. He had been beaten up badly but there were no signs of blood. Only his middle finger – or the place where it should have been – had caused a little pool of blood on the ground. Sherlock squinted his eyes a bit.

"John, can you stand on your own?" he asked, his eyes focused on the body on the ground. I frowned a bit when I nodded.

"Of course I can. I'm fine", I answered, trying to shake his hand off from my shoulders.

"You sure? You don't look like it" he checked. I could feel the corner of my eyes to start twitching. His worry – if you can call it that - was starting to become annoying. And you do _not_ annoy people who suffer from post traumatic stress disorder. Especially if you don't want to get punched in the face.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm _fine. _Stop asking that", I repeated, this time a little bit louder, clamping my lips together. When I looked up to see his face, he was smiling a crooked smile. It wasn't a happy smile, it was cynical and emotionless. He pulled his arm away – slowly, but did anyway – and took few steps closer to the victim. This was the first time I actually got a good change to look around. I had been too concentrated on him and his skinny arm around me that I hadn't even thought about the dead body lying in front of me. But before I had the chance to make deductions on my own, someone else did that for me.

"A member of a motorcycle-gang found really close to Grange Park's primary school. He has a helmet, but he hasn't been riding a motorcycle recently. Around his 30's, tough guy, has been beaten up badly before. These bruises are about… three days old, you can tell by their colour. All the signs of violence are old; none of them couldn't have been made at the day when he was killed. Except…" he had been speaking to himself, but stopped suddenly when he saw something interesting. He knelt down to the ground, closer to the body.

"He was choked to death", he reported suddenly.

"We already knew that", Lestrade said impatiently, rolling his eyes. Anderson snorted next to him.

"I knew he'd be useless. Why don't you let us do our job? We are capable of doing this. We don't need _him_ around", he whispered to Lestrade.

I, personally, have always thought Anderson was just jealous to Sherlock. And maybe the fact that Sherlock used all his chances to insult him whenever they met had something to do with their constant hate against each other. It'd make perfectly sense. At least for me, I don't know what Sherlock thought about that.

Sherlock lifted his hand to shut Anderson up.

"Did you also know that the person who killed him was a _she,_ or a really young man? And she was a really strong woman, to be precise. Killing someone that much bigger than herself... That must have been something", he said, standing up from the ground now. I was looking at him with confusion.

"H- How and where did you conclude that?" I asked, tilting my head a bit. I was actually used to constantly feeling either confused or amazed because of his special skills. His expression brightened. Here we went again. This was the Sherlock I hadn't seen in a while.

"Elementary, can't you see? Oh, it must be so nice to be that stupid. You don't have to deal with all these things. The marks around his neck! No man could have hands that tiny and slender. You can also find a bit of red nail varnish from the collar of his jacket", he said when he straightened, but stopped to look at the victims finger – or the place where there should have been a finger.

"And for the finger –", he started talking but he broke off his own little speech and rolled his eyes in frustration.

"For god's sake Anderson! Shut up!" he yelled suddenly, without looking at any of us. Anderson flinched with an annoyed look on his face.

"I didn't do anything-"

"Don't think! That's bothering me!" Sherlock snarled, closing his eyes. He took few deep breaths before continuing.

"Actually, just turn around and stop breathing. Your whole persistence is making my brainwork harder" he said coldly. Lestrade just shook his head and gave Anderson a sign to move further away from us. I couldn't help but smile a bit. Everything started to seem so normal again. Sherlock's rude behavior, his joy which leaked between his cold personal walls when he had something to do for his genius mind. It was like the past few weeks had never existed When Anderson sniffed at him and walked away, Sherlock finally opened his eyes to examine the body on the ground once more. Suddenly there was a little smile on his thin lips.

"The finger, yes, the finger! This is a sign. The murderer is giving us a sign. The finger has been cut off nicely, by a professional perhaps. What we need to do, is to find the connection between these three fingers which have went missing. What could she use them for? And why is he here? He is obviously too old to be a primary school student and he doesn't look like a teacher either. And I can't imagine a motorcyclist would like to spend some quiet time in the park" he wondered out loud, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Maybe she took those fingers for their fingerprints?" I guessed, trying to help. Although I knew he probably wouldn't need my help. And I probably wouldn't be very helpful even if I tried. I could feel the dizziness which had been bothering me for a few weeks already coming back. I shook my head and tried to focus again.

"Yes, that may be. This man didn't move after his finger was cut off, you can see that from that little pool of blood under him. It doesn't matter how much you look, but you can't see more of his blood here. So he was killed before the murderer sliced his finger off. And the victims seem to get younger every single time… Next one will probably be a woman, around the age of 20", he said turning around on his heels to meet Lestrade's stare.

"There can't be any next victim. We need to catch the murderer before that", Lestrade demanded.

"Yes, of course we'll try our best. But if we are not quick enough, I'll probably be right. No, actually, I'll be right. I'm always right", Sherlock said and dug his cellphone out from his pocket, handing it to me.

"Here, search for the closest hospital around this area", he ordered me, when he turned back to examine the body. I took the phone and opened the map on it.

"Nuffield Hospital is 0.9 miles away from here but I'm not sure if it's -", I started, but suddenly my voice was gone. I frowned, trying to force my mouth to form even a few words, but nothing came out. I heard Sherlock's voice when he said something to Lestrade, but I couldn't hear it clearly enough to understand the words he was saying.

The phone slipped between my fingers and fell on the ground, shattering into pieces. I saw him, Sherlock, taking one step towards me and opening his mouth to say something.

"John!" he yelled, reaching for my arm. I blinked few times hoping that the odd feeling would just disappear.

My head suddenly felt heavier than before.

I opened my mouth again, trying to say something to them. I saw the scared looks on Lestrade and Sherlock's face. I wanted to say something, tell them there was no need to worry. I was okay. I was always okay.

"I- I'm completely fin-", I tried to calm them down between my teeth.

And then everything went black.

* * *

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a while since the last time I passed out. The last time was in… Afghanistan. Yes, during the war. But that time it was caused by a blow on the head. It hadn't been anything like this.

The next thing I remember is lying on the cold ground. Someone was holding my legs up and I heard somebody talking at the background.

"We need a doctor here!"

It was Lestrade. I tried to say something, but my mouth wasn't working yet like it should have. God. It pissed me off so badly.

"John, John! Do you hear me?"

This time it was _him_. I could have recognized his voice even if I was half dead.

"John, answer to me. _Now_", he demanded. His hand was on my cheek. I knew it from his long, skinny fingers, which were stroking my temples gently. His fingers were cold and… shaking. Or was it just me? I couldn't tell anymore.

"I- I'm a doctor", I breathed when I could control my voice again.

"You aren't in a condition to help yourself at the moment", Lestrade answered me from nearby. I sighed – regretting it immediately. Everything I did, hurt. Even breathing felt like someone was scratching my lungs with a peeler. And on top of that, my head felt like someone had driven over me with a truck.

"Can you open your eyes?" he, Sherlock, asked with a cold tune in his voice. His icy fingers were now behind my neck.

"Yeah…" I mumbled, without actually doing anything. I couldn't move. I didn't _want_ to move because I was afraid it might have hurt even more.

"John."

"Yes?" The noises which escaped between my lips were weak. I felt so pathetic and so… tired.

"Open your eyes", he commanded, pulling his hand away from me. I sighed a little. When I slowly opened my eyes, his face was the first thing I saw. He was paler than usually and the look in his eyes was – worried? Maybe I was still too dizzy. I tried my best not to frown, because it just made the pain on my forehead worse.

"Did I not tell you not to fall over or faint on a crime scene?" he said quietly, squinting his eyes a little. I mumbled something agreeing to him and let him to help me sit up. I was leaning on him a little, since the dizziness hadn't gone away. I could see from the corner of my eyes Lestrade coming closer and kneeling down.

"I'll call the ambulance. Our men aren't capable to help in this situation", Lestrade said, taking his cellphone out from his pocket. I flinched a little. I didn't want an ambulance, not to mention doctors. Even if there were something wrong with me, I didn't want to know it yet. It wasn't its time yet. I wasn't ready for the news. More importantly, _he_ wasn't ready for the news.

"No, it's alright. I- I haven't eaten much today and it has been a stressful week at the clinic. There is no need to make a big deal out of this", I stammered and tried to smile. It was hard, lying like that to the people I actually cared. There's no need to judge me. I was selfish and I knew it. But it was easier to let all this to be for a while.

Weird. I wasn't usually that person who let things "to be" when facing them is hard. _He_ was like that.

The look which Lestrade gave me didn't look like he was going to let me escape that easily.

"You just fainted. And you're paler than snow. This is not healthy. Are you sure that I shouldn't-", Lestrade started, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Get us a cab", he commanded the police inspector. Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"What? Where are you going? Aren't you going to take the case?" the police inspector asked in confusion. Sherlock wrapped his arm around my shoulders like before, only this time lot tighter.

"We're going home. I'm going to think about this when we'll get there", he answered coolly and then asked with a quieter voice, "John, can you stand?"

"Somehow", I answered, nodding. He helped me to stand up and gave an irritated look to Lestrade. The police inspector didn't look like he was going to let them go like that. Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration.

"His name is Jonathan "_the Rock"_ Moore. The police have been looking for him for the past seven days, didn't you know that? He has been to prison twice because of bank robbery and sexual harassment. That's everything I can tell you right now", he said coolly, "If you wanted, you could search around for more clues. Let me know if you find something."

"Could you get us a cab?" he asked again, this time a little bit nicer and smiled an ironical smile to the police officer. Lestrade gave me one worried look before hurrying to the main road. Sherlock sighed a bit and started walking me after him, supporting me the whole way. I have never, ever in my life, felt as embarrassed as I did then.

The next clear memory I have is from the taxi. Like when we came to the Grange Park, he hadn't talked to me after we got into the car. I had caught him staring at me few times, but every single time he turned his head away or tried to act like he hadn't been watching me. After a short while I gave up waiting and started to look outside from the window, trying to concentrate on the buildings and people we passed by. When I finally looked at him, I caught his eyes examining my face. I sighed in frustration.

"You are staring at me. Again", I sighed in frustration after a while. He raised his eyebrows.

"And?"

"It's annoying, stop it. It looks like you're waiting for me to pass out again",

"But you most probably are going to pass out again."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

That made me shut up. Of course he'd know.

I took a few short breaths and closed my eyes. There was no sense at fighting with him now about this subject. He wouldn't listen to me anyway and it'd be in vain to lie to him. I massaged my aching forehead with my hand and closed my eyes. I would see my bed in a completely different light when we got home. My eyelids felt heavy and it was hard not to fall asleep right there, on the backseat of a small, black cab.

I was done talking to him for now, but the sudden click made me look at him again. It was him, taking his wool jacket off and offering it to me.

"You should sleep, John. It'll take more than forty minutes for us to get home in this traffic. And you're shaking", he said quietly, when he put the jacket over my shoulders. I hadn't even realized how cold I was. Suddenly it felt like I was freezing to death. I nodded a little and mumbled a small "thanks" to him but he was already staring out of the window. I could almost hear him thinking about the case in his genius mind. I couldn't do anything else but to stare at him for a while. He was so concentrated, lost in his own little mind.

It didn't take too long for me to fall asleep. Even though the motion of the cab made me feel a little bit sick, I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. His jacket smelled after cigarettes and eucalyptus and in a way, the smell was kind of… pleasant.

tbc


End file.
